Forever in Hollywood Read online

  “No one is going to care if you remember your lines, just how well you suck cock.”

  “Excuse me? I am not like that, you sick pervert.” I realized my mouth had flown open, but I quickly snapped it shut when he smiled. I gave him a measured stare.

  “Well if you are going to keep your pants on, keep your mouth shut, will you?”

  “You—” I wanted to hit the man. It might not be prudent on a plane though. I pictured the horror on Dan’s smirky face when my mug shot was flashed across CNN after being arrested for in-flight violence.

  The last hour of the flight was brutally long as I clung to the furthest armrest. From my window seat, I watched patchwork farmland and snowcapped treacherous mountain ranges turn into massive highways and densely packed buildings. Palm trees were illuminated with their own floodlights and advertising billboards were visible.

  I retrieved my bags from the luggage carousal then walked outside to find my ride. Someone was supposed meet me at Gate 15 and drive me to the hotel. Intense heat assaulted me the moment the doors opened, stopping me in my footsteps. I blinked rapidly to soothe my eyes, but it felt like the heat was searing my contacts to my corneas. I stood there for a moment to adjust to the temperature. When I left Boston, it was still cold. Trees were sprouting new growth, though Mother Nature threatened them nightly with freezing temperatures. The sun had not even hit my skin, yet I wanted to retreat back inside. Had I been living in Boston for so long I couldn’t even take a little heat? I always considered myself rather thin blooded.

  How would I ever get through shooting in this weather wearing period costume? When I opened my eyes again, I felt adequately prepared to meet the change in weather. It didn’t take long to spot a gentleman holding a sign with my last name magic markered on it.

  Eager as a puppy, I bounded up to him. “Hey, that’s me. Are you here from the production crew?”

  “Yes, may I see an ID? I need to confirm you are who you say you are,” the man’s gruff voice said. He was an older gentleman with raven hair receding from the temples. An occasional white strand of age broke up the blackness. His dark skin held the appearance of leather, and suggested a life in the relentless sunshine of this state.

  “Oh, okay, sure.” Shuffling my bags around to get to my driver’s license, I dropped my carryon and spilled half the contents of my purse onto the pavement. The driver looked rather annoyed when I finally handed him the plastic card.

  Things are starting off fantastic once again. If my luck held up this way, I’d be fired off the set by day two.

  The driver waved me into the van without helping load my heavy luggage into the back. Instead he circled around to the driver side and sat patiently waiting for me to get seated.

  So much for chivalry. I sighed then heaved a bag into the van.

  We left the airport, the only noise in the van was the hum of the tires on the road and soft Spanish music playing on the radio. I imagined the lady rolling her R’s was singing to me about a lost lover, or perhaps telling a cheating husband she’d had enough.

  It was then I first took in the immensity of Los Angeles. There were buildings as far as the eye could see. Strip malls, houses, and apartments all mingled together with little unused real estate in between. The few patches of land still undeveloped were on jagged steep mountain terrain. Even those were molested by oil tycoons and black oilrigs worked to pull the liquid gold from the earth.

  The only oilrig I’d seen before today was on television or photos. They were smaller than I expected. My heart raced. I was really in California, and it was even more alien than I anticipated.

  We traveled from one major six-lane highway to another via an on-ramp that climbed high like a skyscraper. As we rounded yet another upward spiral, I took a glance down and vertigo washed over me. A labyrinth of cement and asphalt mingled so three different highways could cross paths without interrupting the flow of traffic. Onward and upward!

  I was brought to the Days Inn Hollywood hotel. The driver left me standing in the parking lot with my bags at my feet.

  I checked in at the front desk. Instead of unpacking or getting anything situated, or exploring my new temporary home, I dropped on the bed with a heavy sigh and closed my eyes.

  Chapter Two

  I was too excited to get much rest. Sleep came, yes, but it was often interrupted with images of me standing naked in front of a crowd, my mind a total blank, unable to improvise or remember my lines. Other times I woke suddenly thinking I heard a baby scream, and this was even more unsettling.

  The hotel phone on my nightstand emitted a vulgar antique ring. I picked it up expecting the front office to be on the line, but a cheery lady greeted me.

  “Hey, is this Marissa Pearson?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Sasha, one of the P.A’s on the production, I’m just calling to confirm that the director will have time to meet with you in about an hour. We’ll send a car to pick you up. You’ll get your sides and call sheet for tomorrow when you’re here,” the production assistant told me.

  “What are sides?”

  “The pages we shoot each day are your sides. The call sheet gives you who, when, and where for the day. Any other questions?”

  “No, thank you.” I hung up.

  When I stepped out of my room an hour later, a white van was indeed waiting, driven by the same gentleman who’d picked me up yesterday.

  “I’ve been out here for a while,” he said when I climbed in the seat. I was taken aback by his scolding.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, they just said someone would pick me up in an hour.”

  “Well, make sure to check the times on your call sheet from now on. I don’t wait around for people. If you miss the ride, you’ll have to find your own way to set. You do know what a call sheet is, right? The thing they give you with everyone’s times and locations for the following day?” His condescending tone irked me.

  “No. I mean, yes, I know what a call sheet is. Again, I’m sorry for being late.”

  Universal Studios back-lot—where all the magic happened—was enormous. White warehouses stretched in every direction. Painted on their broadsides were numbers indicating what stage was inside. Enormous cables as thick as my wrist rested across the roads leading from buildings and generators.

  Sasha was waiting when we pulled up to base camp. She looked every bit as young as she’d sounded. Couldn’t even be a year out of high school. “The director is at lunch, just hang out and he’ll meet with you when he gets back. These are your sides for tomorrow. A call sheet will be emailed to you when we wrap shooting today. You have access to email, right?”

  I nodded, thanked her, and to kill a little time, wandered around the back lot to see if there was anything interesting going on. I came across a small room with the door propped open on the right side of the production’s main studio building. A few instruments sitting in their stands were in there, left unguarded. They must have been props for some movie but not an eighteenth-century war movie for certain.

  After a quick peek around the entrance, I stepped inside. I slid my hand across the neck of one of the guitars. It was a sleek dark wood, mahogany maybe. It was obvious by the craftsmanship someone spent a lot of money on it. Something made me pick it up and sit on the tiny stool next to it. I’d never touched such a fine instrument before. I was more used to the pale oak color of the mass marketed ‘beginner’ guitars. With my limited experience, I would not imagine spending so much on an instrument. It even felt expensive sitting comfortably on my knee. I pulled the pick out of the strings and plucked a few notes.

  “That’s Brazilian rosewood, do be careful with her,” said a voice behind me.

  With my back facing the door, I was so engrossed in trying to play I hadn’t noticed someone enter the room. I let out a small yelp, dropping the pick and clutching the guitar to my chest as a shield. Expensive or not, I wasn’t above using Brazilian rosewood as a weapon if need be.

  I turned around, my heart
hammering in my chest. I recognized Andrew Reed right away. Shit. Why did it have to be him?

  Dark strands of long hair fell in his face and accentuated his almond-shaped, emerald eyes. His hand raked the wayward strands away, exposing intense long eyelashes. A prominent chiseled jawline made him look strong and masculine. Judging by the fit of his clothes, every muscle was sculpted to perfection. My eyes were fixated on his plump, very suckable bottom lip. Did I just think that?

  All I saw of him in our first meeting were his legs, and crumpled, scowling face. With his expression softer, I was shocked at how much more attractive he was in person than on television.

  “I’m so sorry,” I muttered. I wanted to put down the guitar and run out of the room. Nervous laughter rose in my chest. If I let it out, he would think I was insane. My eyes watered, but I fought back the instinct to cry from sheer embarrassment. I retrieved the pick and fumbled it back into the guitar string and set down the instrument. I contemplated running, but where would I go? Unless I wanted to tackle him like a linebacker, I wouldn’t get far with him blocking the exit. Although, tackling him… I shook my head to rid myself of the thoughts.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you. Breathe.” His hands flailed in circles to encourage me. “I think you’re turning blue.”

  So, dying from embarrassment begins with a lack of oxygen? I gasped, filling my lungs a few times before my breathing stabilized.

  He spoke again in a much calmer tone. “Do you play?”

  “Um…”

  He shifted his weight and asked again. “The guitar, do you play?” He spoke slower, his voice smooth enough to melt the panties off a nun.

  This would be a good time for me to use your words, brain.

  “I used to a little. I was never really good though and haven’t picked up a guitar in years.” I felt the need to explain my irrational behavior hoping it might make things better. “I was curious to see if I remembered anything.” I gave him a small, sheepish grin.

  “Please.” He gestured toward the instrument, urging me to continue. “I apologize.”

  “Is it yours?” I asked.

  “Yes, I have been known to play a little here and there.” A smile teased his lips.

  The guitar now became my mortal enemy of doom and embarrassment. I settled the instrument back in my lap and situated my fingers along the frets. He smiled and crossed his arms over his chest waiting to be entertained. I fingered a couple of strings. “I don’t think I can remember.”

  “What are you attempting to play?”

  “I was trying to remember anything really, but nothing is coming back.” He seemed amused but stayed firmly planted in the doorway. Probably thinking I’ve never touched an instrument in my life, probably thinking this was a ruse, or I was some dumbass. I picked a few times at the strings. “Do you know any Smashing Pumpkins?” I kept my eyes on the strings, not wanting to stare at him.

  “I do, but that doesn’t sound anything like them.” He chuckled and moved into the room.

  “I’m trying to remember how to play ‘Today’.” I scowled.

  “Let me show you.” He grabbed the guitar and picked out the first chorus of the tune.

  “That’s it! I’ve always loved this song. May I?” I smiled and reached out, eager to try again.

  He handed the guitar back to me, and I picked out the same notes he’d played. The sound produced from my fingers wasn’t as melodic as what came out with its former musician, but it was coming back to me.

  “Mm, that’s better. Keep practicing. I have to get back to the set.” And he was gone.

  I still hadn’t gotten a chance to apologize, and, after molesting his guitar, I was sure to be tossed off the movie.

  The director and I walked from lunch to the soundstage. Our meeting took exactly two minutes then I waited another hour before the van driver returned me to the hotel.

  ****

  The van driver’s grim warning about being late meant I had plenty of time to sit in the lobby and wait for the van and the rest of the cast to drift in the following day.

  As the rest of the crew arrived, they formed little clusters. Considering I was the only person standing in the room by myself, it was impossible not to eavesdrop on their conversations. One group was talking about the difference between the Boston location and California, while the other group chatted about meeting some of their favorite actors on this shoot.

  When the van pulled up, I scampered aboard before anyone else and took a seat at the front. Despite my inviting smile and nod toward the empty seat, the group filed past, leaving me alone. Only a few people were nice enough to return my smile as they took their seats.

  I figured we would be leaving once the last person from the lobby sat down, but we sat there for a while longer. Finally an attractive older man sprinted up to the van. He opened the door and slid in the seat next to me. The first thing I noticed about him was his intense blue eyes. Usually I classified blue eyes in shades of gray, rather un-impressive to my taste. But this man’s eyes were a piercing blue, like looking into the depths of the ocean.

  In contrast to his bright eyes, he had a short spread of dark hair across his jawline and a bright white smile plastered on his face.

  “Hey! Billy Grison,” he said between breaths. “Or John Corbin, if you’re a method actress.”

  I recognized the name; he was my romantic interest in the movie. There was a steamy, kissing scene between the two of us that made me apprehensive.

  “Marissa Pearson, or your new wife, Margret.”

  “Oh!” he exclaimed. “Remind me to thank casting for such a beautiful future wife. Now if only it were so easy to get a beautiful future husband.” He made a disgruntled sound. “Nice to meet you, Marissa. Did you just get in town?” He smiled and extended his hand for me to shake.

  “Yes, last night.” I smiled. Billy played small roles in several other movies, but as he listed them, I couldn’t connect him to his characters. Guilt washed over me for my careless, selective memory. He was a nice enough guy, and I wanted to be able to tell him I remembered his characters and how wonderful a job he did in the past. So, I did what any respectable actress would do in my position, I lied.

  Billy kept up a steady chatter the whole ride to the set, and I smiled and threw in a word here and there. He stretched his legs across the floorboard of the van, encroaching on my space, but I didn’t mind. He looked so calm and comfortable that it, in turn, calmed me.

  “I’ll be your tour guide today, little lady, don’t stray too far, it’s a big world in there, and you could get easily lost,” Billy joked when the van rolled past security.

  “My hero,” I cooed.

  His six-foot-two frame towered over me. No wonder he stretched so far across the van. Did casting truly intend to pair together such a Mutt and Jeff?

  Billy introduced me to Whitney, a plump lady in her forties, who would play the mother of one of the main characters. Together we walked to base camp where we were greeted by a young man whom I assumed was an assistant director—he carried a clipboard after all. He hustled me right away to give direction on what I would be doing today.

  The set was a buzz of activity. I walked, and sometimes jogged, alongside the assistant whose power-walk made his hips flail wildly from side to side with each step. We passed several crewmembers setting up for different scenes. He pointed out the makeup and wardrobe trailer as we sped by. He gave me a stern warning to be on time and in my seat, ready for hair and makeup. I almost laughed; the man spoke as fast as he walked. It must be exhausting to walk in his shoes. Hell, walking behind his shoes was exhausting.

  The assistant director left me to my own devices. Billy corralled me over to the main production studio where a line of plastic foldout tables was set up with breakfast pastries and fruit. I grabbed a cup of coffee from the Box of Joe and blissfully sipped, not caring that the content inside my Styrofoam cup was merely lukewarm. The euphoric feeling of caffeine coursing through my veins and ignitin
g my senses made me come alive.

  “Shall we go see what kind of trouble we can get ourselves into, ladies?” Billy suggestively wagged his eyebrows at me.

  “Do you want to scare the poor girl mere hours after meeting you? Let her get to know us before making her run for the door, Bill. Don’t worry, hunny.” Whitney placed a hand on my arm. “He’s just playing around.”

  Before Billy could change his mind about showing me around, I interjected, “Trouble is my middle name, but we should go before the assistant director comes back and hip-bumps me into the next state.” I was hoping I hadn’t crossed the line joking about such things, but they both laughed. Billy held out an elbow for me, and I eagerly took it.

  “I’d not mind a little hip-bumpin’ from him,” Billy said. Whitney swatted at him with her hand and took her place on his other arm. “Two fine women on this fine day. Trouble abounds!” Billy teased.

  We meandered around the area for a while with Billy complaining about his experience in Boston filming the navy battle scenes.

  “I don’t understand how production can get things done out there. We shut down for three days because the damn weather couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to snow or rain. I mean, I’m from New York, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen it so bad. The continuity issues it causes alone were terrible. At least here they can fake whatever weather they want.”

  A glance upward confirmed what he was saying. There wasn’t a single wisp of cloud in the soft blue sky.

  “This March was terrible,” I agreed.

  “Oh, that’s not the worst of it. We are about a week behind our shooting schedule. I’ve heard talk some of us will have to go back to re-shoot some stuff.”

  “Oh, you should come visit me then.” I clapped my hands in excitement.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” he said.

  Chapter Three

  My call time was moved ahead to the ungodly hour of 5:10 the next morning to make up for some of the lost time. I thought for sure I would be able to catch Dan before he left for work since there was a three-hour time difference, but he didn’t pick up his phone, so I was forced to leave a voicemail.